


I Deduced a Werewolf

by Bioluminescent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminescent/pseuds/Bioluminescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock frowns at the slightly detached look on John's face, the moonlight streaming down over his silvery hair, the shadow created by his hair keeping his facial features out of Sherlock's gaze, the slightly peaceful look being wrapped around him as he nods his head in agreement and tucks his arm into John's arm, pulling him after him and into the misty night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started up as my first try at a Sherlock fanfic, but you can all see that, with some prompting from a friend, it has morphed into a crossover. I was dubious at first about my writing anything Sherlock related, so I am going to struggle with writing the more Sherlock deducing chapters.   
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Teen Wolf, this is only being written for amusement.

Contemplating the look on the man's face, Sherlock lets go of the twisted arm he was holding and shoves him into the muddy alley's ground. John just shakes his head affectionately at Sherlock's curly hair, leaning against the dumpster.   
“So, Mycroft, how is it possible that the police have not arrived yet or whatever normal people do?” Sherlock glares at a security camera on the side of the red bricked building John is studying intently, his gaze fixed on the shadows. The security camera blinks red at them before turning to look down the alley toward the street before turning off, the red light flickering to blackness.   
With a scorn filled scoff, Sherlock turns to his partner, immediately noticing the way he is standing before walking forward and supporting the shorter man by the elbow.   
“Come John, I need to have a chat with my brother before we get back to the flat. John?”  
John raises one arm up and grabs at the collar of Sherlock's coat, pulling his head down so he can whisper in the taller man's ear.   
“I do believe that the security camera did turn off did it not?”  
Sherlock frowns and tries to pull away from John but he firmly holds him down to face level.   
“It did. Unless Mycroft decided to stalk his younger brother. Now that is a strange growl, it is not from any of our buses, must be a German model, early seventies, around 1972-”  
Annoyed, John gives his friend a shake before continuing, “As I was going to say, if you had shut your bloody mouth, is that I do not think this is a security camera. For one thing that even a genius like you would know, cameras do not have two red blinking lights, now do they?”  
Sherlock takes in John's face, easily recognizing the worry lines and the frown that John is now wearing. Azure eyes flick over deep unwavering pools that stare past his shoulder and into the shadows, the hairs on the back on his neck slowly rising as he realizes the growl is not a car.   
“Run, Sherlock, run.” And with that, John somehow manages to twist his hand in Sherlock's scarf, keeping his head mushed into his shoulder, keeping him from seeing the large red eyes that stare now unblinkingly at the two retreating figures, black lips peeling back to reveal sharp canines that glint red in the dim light. John just stares at it, fighting with Sherlock over control of his head of curls.  
“Oh, for Christs sake Sherlock, do stop it.”  
“Well if you would tell me what is being so interesting when you are being so boring, I would kindly stop. But we both know that you are keeping me from something that may stop my brain from rocketing out of control once again.”  
John peels his lips from his own teeth, challenging the thing in the darkness, clutching the now angry detective to his chest, tucking his chin over onto the top of the dark hair, stubbornly ignoring the protests and treats that are being emitted from his chest.   
Before the consulting detective can wrench himself from John's grasp, the red glow dimming as it backs away, one eye winking at the army doctor just as Sherlock rips himself from his grasp. Whirling around to the back of the alley, the sharp eyes narrow once again before flitting back to John's face, his mouth pulling down at the corners when he can't read anything important.  
Only useless information. Electric razor. Late to work. Coffee. Lunch with co-worker. Date tomorrow. Shower last night. Took a walk by the baker to get mail at the post office. And one more thing that encompasses John's entire being. Before Sherlock can nail it on the head, John has turned away from the alley and walks toward the road, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock expectantly.  
“Well? You coming or what?” Sherlock frowns at the slightly detached look on John's face, the moonlight streaming down over his silvery hair, the shadow created by his hair keeping his facial features out of Sherlock's gaze, the slightly peaceful look being wrapped around him as he nods his head in agreement and tucks his arm into John's arm, pulling him after him and into the misty night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the pain begins...dun dun duuuuuun! But, whatevs. I'm happily ignoring friends and family to write my evil minds creations for all you so appreciate it. Hah! Screw finals! Who has time for that? But, I digress. And I may need some sleep.....but anyway, don't care. This chapter kinda jumps all over the place so yeah.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the Beacon Hills aspect of this fic, but I still have to get deep into the nitty gritty part so read on while I write on.

With a satisfying thunk, the burger meets its doom in the police trash can at the end of the desk, being replaced determinedly with a salad with greens and tomatoes and absolutely no dressing.   
“Stiles? What are you doing here and why did you kill my lunch?” Sheriff Stilinski scowls down at the salad being shoved in front of him and looks up pleadingly at his son.  
“Its your lunch break, and you had decided to eat that so I brought you something else.” Stiles stares down at his father, a mischievous twinkle in his eye that his father recognizes. With a sigh, he starts to pick apart the salad, placing all the lettuce in one corner the cucumbers in another and tomato slices in the other.   
“So where is Scott?”  
“What?” Stiles goes to stand over his father's shoulder, glancing briefly at the police reports that are strewn across the desk in messy piles. “Scott is at lacrosse practice.”  
Narrowing his eyes at his son's antics, Sheriff turns around in his seat, splaying an arm over the reports. “You will not be able to look at these until you tell me why you are not at lacrosse practice yourself.”  
Ignoring the phone buzzing in his pocket, Stiles lets out a short laugh and replies easily. “I told Finstock I had a family emergency to attend to. Now what is the latest crimes that sweet old Beacon Hills has to offer me amusement?”   
“Stiles,” when Stiles hears the resolution in his fathers voice, he immediately pulls the fattest report from under the salad and walks over to the other side of the desk to read it. With a glare at his son, Sheriff grumbles before lazily picking at the lettuce, occasionally popping a tomato or cucumber in his mouth. Mouth full, Sheriff points at Stiles' jean pocket, that is still buzzing inconsistently, and speaks around his food.   
“You going to answer that?” When Stiles does not look up from the report that has him thoroughly engrossed, Sheriff lifts his salad container and holds it over the trash, counting to three before letting it go. As he had expected, a long fingered hand had shot out and caught it before placing it in front of him with a glare.   
“Answer what?” As if to spite him and everything he says, his phone buzzes again. “That's what that was then.”  
Rolling his eyes, Sheriff watches as Stiles pulls his phone out and flips through the messages, his face growing tight with concern.  
“Stiles?” Stiles shoots an apologetic look towards his father and stands, hand reaching into his pocket for his keys, the phone placed between his ear and shoulder while his other hand flips the report closed and tucks it into his backpack.  
“Sorry dad, Scott needs help finding his inhaler. If you don't eat that you will be starving by the time you get home and you will not have anything greasy to eat while I am not in your presence.” At the Sheriff's outraged look, Stiles points a stern finger at him before walking to the door. “I will know.”   
And with that, Stiles slips away from his father, impatiently tapping his fingers against his thigh as he makes his way to his Jeep. Stiles lets out a breathe of relief when somebody answers the phone, but he freezes when he hears the ugly words flowing into his ear.  
“If you ever want to see your precious pack again, I would suggest you come out here to save the day my lovely.”   
The soft beep of a disconnection causes Stiles to spring into action. Flinging open the door of his baby and haphazardly throwing the file onto the passenger seat, Stiles fumbles with his keys in the ignition.  
Then again, grinding gears and speeding out of the parking lot in front of the police station probably is not a good idea. But, Stiles does it anyway, glancing in his mirror before rifling through the supplies on the floor with his foot. Feeling the warmth in his chest expanding as he reaches the Hale property, Stiles steps on the gas and drives in to the woods undaunted.  
Remembering the cold undertones of the voice that spoke to him, Stiles makes a list of the things that he is going to need to save his friends, yet again. Just before the warmth in his chest starts to burn, Stiles stops his baby and collects all the things he needs. Arms and slings full, Stiles walks carefully through the underbrush, stopping behind a large boulder. The packs go down on the ground and he digs through one of them before he finds the jar he is looking for. He grabs a handful and lets the white ash run through his fingers before imagining a circle of the stuff around the area he knows all the vampires are in. Then he believes that the ash actually is there and not just a figment of his imagination. And when he looks down and sees that the ring of birch tree ash flows away from him into the woods.  
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he hoots three times. When he gets two in reply, he hoots four times this time, pausing before hooting one more time. Just as he expected, five minutes later, Allison has dropped onto the ground beside him, her bow knocked and her quiver full.  
“Hey Stiles.”  
“Hi.” Stiles reaches around Allison to his baseball bat, feeling the hum of the wood against his skin before turning back to his jar of birch ash.  
“There are five in total, very small nest. Only one Master and she is the only woman, the rest are only Subs, but the one that guards her is her lover so he is stronger than the others.”  
Nodding at the steady stream of intel, Stiles believes that the bat is covered in a never ending coating of birch ash, the bat poofing slightly as it is covered.  
“What about the others?”  
Allison frowns and says, “They are going to be tricky. All tied up in wolfsbane coated rope, surrounded by a circle of wolfsbane. And all the Subs are guarding too.”  
Nodding again, Stiles picks up a jar of refined wolfsbane and another jar of birch ash. A gleam in his eye that Allison can relate to and he smiles, all teeth.  
“Let's boogie.” And with that, Stiles slowly stalked forward, his bat clutched in one hand, the other stuffing the two jars into his sweatshirt pockets. Glancing behind him to make sure Allison is following him, and seeing that she is, boosts his confidence enough to smile. Allison turns pale when she sees the look on Stiles' face.   
“Stiles...you have that look again.” Frowning through his trickster smile Stiles lets his eyes gleam in mischief before answering.  
“What look?” Ignoring the innocent sound of his voice, Allusion huffs as they make their way through a particularly thick bush.  
“Stiles, you fully well know what look I am talking about. Its that look you got when you figured out what wards do and then you promptly drew one on your bat and carried it around school, hitting people upside the head with it.”   
“Oh. That look.” Pausing before the break in the brush, Stiles nods. “Backtrack. Demon dragon.”  
Allison freezes before lurching to behind the boulder and beyond it into the woods, she watches when Stiles stands up, the bat flickering from sight when she sees him drawing a ward on it, his shoulders set in determination.  
Cocking his head to one side arrogantly, Stiles saunters into the clearing in front of him, letting his gaze sweep idly across the beings. Brown eyes skip over his pack, focusing on one person in particular (he couldn't exactly call her a person, but what can you say?). Hands splayed by his sides showing he is unarmed, Stiles steps forward a welcoming smile on his face.   
“Andrea!”  
The petite blonde shoots up from where she was sitting before running across the clearing to jump into his arms squealing happily. Derek shouts unintelligibly, a dull thwack from on e of the Subs quieting him.  
“Stiles! It has been so long! You did not tell me that you where back! What brings you here?” Suddenly wary, she releases her hold from around his neck and steps back into the comforting warmth of the tall Sub behind her. “Surely you are not here for them, now are you?”  
With the eyes of his entire pack on him, Stiles laughs. He laughs so hard that he has to wipe tears from his eyes and gasp before he can speak again.  
“You-you think, that I would come for them?” They all flinch at the hardness creeping into his voice, Erica snarling before he turns his gaze on her. “You seriously thought, Andrea, that I would be involved with these flea-bags?”   
Stiles advances toward Erica, his gaze flicking from her face to Scott's hurt face to Isaac's confused one and Boyd's stoic one. He focuses on Derek's snarling one and ignores Jackson and Lydia completely.  
Shrugging, Andrea's eyes fill with hope once again. “Well baby, you never know who might betray us at anytime. You could have left us for the dark side.”  
Scowling at Erica, Stiles turns, purposely displaying his hurt to the Master and Sub, “I'm hurt, Andrea.” He pouts prettily in her direction before brushing a hand against Erica's swaying face, distracting Andrea as he continues, “You had thought that your emissary would leave you, and the high aristocracy, for these? I only joined them so as to possibly get information about this species that you despise and hate that will benefit you my love. And now that I have enough, I have come back to my rightful place.”  
Derek growls deep in his throat, eyes flashing but Erica shoots him a look, hissing at him, “Listen dumbfuck.”   
Andrea licks her fangs greedily as she allows Stiles to advance, his eyes softening as he wraps his arms around her thin waist and lifts her up to him to gently kiss her lips. Scott howls, his eyes flashing red but Erica hisses at him, continuing her conversation with Derek.   
“Did you not notice the low concentration of wolfsbane on these ropes? They obviously knew that they needed a concentration but not what, so Stiles fed them information. And did you not smell the armed Allison Argent on his clothes?” Nodding his head, Derek growls at Scott until he calms, relaying Erica's beliefs.   
“Yeah, the only problem is that we are still effected by wolfsbane and we all just so happen to be hanging upside down guarded by four Sub vampires.” Derek growls out, straining against the ropes.  
“Quiet them down over there! You know I like peace and quiet when I feed.” When they see Andrea pulling Stiles down to her face, he smiles warm at her before baring his pale neck to her.  
Then, everybody howls, straining to get to their squishy, unwilling to let a vampire get to him. The four Subs step forward swinging their clubs dangerously close to the werewolves faces, the head Sub even daring to crack Derek in the face. Stiles stiffens when he hears the crack, his eyes wide as Andrea trails light kisses down his jaw and to his neck. An owl hoots right when she places her bared fangs to his throat, kissing softly on his jugular. Struggling against his ropes, ignoring the fact that his broken nose has not healed, Derek thrashes wildly, hoping to loosen the ropes. Stiles threads one deft hand through the Masters hair, the other slipping from her waist to his, a meaningful glance at one particular tree with a raised eyebrow.  
Silver starting to seep into the red surrounding his eyes, Derek does not stop thrashing even when an arrow spears directly through a Subs chest, piercing the heart.   
Erica yowls, before slicing through the bindings around her, testing the ground surrounding them all with a foot, smiling gleefully when she realizes that the wolfsbane circle has been killed. Andrea jerks away from biting Stiles, staring up into his face, a snarl written on hers when he brings his fist up and swings it down. The sharp crack breaks Derek out of his rage, the red filling out over the harsh silver, watching as Allison shoots another Sub through, Scott beaming in her direction.  
“You thought,” Stiles brings his bat up again, the end smoking while Andrea raises one hand up to her face, pressing against the smoking bruise, her fangs elongated and throbbing. “that I would stay with you, for my family?” He brings down the bat another time, catching her in the stomach. “There is a reason that I decided to ignore you and your summons, I had found a family that would care for me, and then I realized that I could rid you from the world, so I took the opportunity.” Stiles brings up the bat one last time, not noticing as the rest of his pack is released and the screams and gurgles as they decapitate the Subs, but also not noticing that Andrea's guard is behind him. The bat comes down with a powerful swing, knocking the Master vampires head clean off, the stump hissing faintly. Smiling happily at his handi-work, Stiles freezes when a cold hand wraps around his throat, dropping the bat to claw at the ever tightening grip.  
Derek falls to the ground from his bindings just to look up and see Stiles being clutched to the chest of the Sub.  
“Get your filthy paws off him.” Flicking his claws impatiently, Derek advances towards them, only stopping when Stiles lets out a pained gasp, his face slowly turning red.  
“Ah, ah ah.” The Sub teases, stroking the side of Stiles' neck. “I have always wanted to taste a human, and a powerful one at that, but miss Andrea always took them for herself. I must thank you for that little favor back there. But I really do need to quench my thirst, so I am just going to tap your friend here.” Derek snarls with Erica, Scott and Isaac, stepping forward once again, but the Sub snarls and clenches around Stiles' throat again, Stiles wincing, one hand scrabbling at his red hoodie pocket. Derek hears the bow string being pulled back somewhere to his left, but his eyes are fixated on the hungry fangs descending toward the pale expanse of his betas throat.  
Stiles flinches when the Sub places his fangs over his jugular, grasping whatever is in his front pocket, stretching his arm to get it. The sharp twang of the bow being released and Stiles is moving, bringing his hand up to smash the Sub in the face, grinding a fistful of ash into his eyes with a snarl on his face. Erica bolts forward, attempting to tackle the dizzy Stiles to the ground, but the Sub throws him across the clearing in time for Allison's arrow to go through his chest cavity with a thunk, both bodies hitting the ground with a thud, one dead, and another with broken bones.  
Derek rushes to Stiles, who is curled on the ground groaning, Isaac and Boyd happily ripping the limbs off of the body before throwing it into the fire that Allison started.  
“Stiles? Stiles? Answer me god dammit.” Derek shakes said boy, stopping when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He glances over, a snarl on his face that dies before he even sees Scott's worried face and Isaac's grim attitude.  
But, before anybody can do anything, they hear a slight crunch of leaves on the other side of the clearing, all turning towards it and snarling, Derek gently cradling Stiles' limp form against his chest.  
Easing out of the undergrowth, the blond man raises his hands over his head, his usually cold eyes laughing.   
“I come in peace. I mean no harm.” Lowering his arms as the wolves recede, Chris Argent adjusts the scarf around his throat before swinging his pack in front of him. “And do stop glaring at me like that Derek, I have something that can help Stiles.”  
Derek does not say anything but allows the elder hunter to approach, his eyes warily looking at the flask in his hand. Done with their ripping and tearing of limbs, Erica and Boyd join their alpha, hovering protectively behind him, glancing worriedly down at the beta in his arms. Allison stands behind her father, watching like the rest of them as he uncaps the metal flask and sniffs the contents before dumping it over Stiles. With a hoarse yell accompanied by many snarls, Stiles shoots out of Derek's arms and onto his feet racing around the clearing before stopping in front of Chris breathing heavily. Derek stands up from his crouch sanding in front of Chris scowling.  
“What in the holy hell, was that?” Stiles punches the blond savagely in the arm nodding his agreement.  
“Yeah. What the hell. I was happily sleeping away and then you decide to come over and ruin my sleep just like every single evil thing in the world, and you had to ruin it. Seriously? And I thought you were the grown-up. Obviously not.” Huffing angrily at this, Scott goes up behind his friend, wrapping his arms around him comfortingly, resting his uneven jaw against his shoulder. Raising his hands again complacently, Chris defends himself.   
“Hey, you all wanted him to wake up, you,” pointing at Derek, Scott and Isaac. “looked as if you were just going to stand there and watch him and not bring him to Deaton, so I did what I normally do. Improvise.”   
Frowning before speaking, Derek furrows his eyebrows funnily, Stiles giggling slightly. “But he had broken bones. We all heard it.” Chris mirrors his frown but then Stiles laughs with a sheepish smile.   
Embarrassed, Stiles pulls out his baseball bat, revealing the split handle and crushed base. “Well, something did break. Just not me. I am hungry. Can we go out or is it too late? Dammit, is it not a school night? Cause I have a study group with Danny tomorrow after school, oh hey Jackson, Lydia! Did not see you there.” Erica goes up to Stiles, looking him deep in the face before punching him on the arm, successfully stopping his stream of chatter. “Ow! What was that for?”  
Isaac and Scott sigh with a knowing smile before ruffling Stiles' hair, nodding to Derek before disappearing into the woods with Allison and Chris.   
“I think somebody needs a little sleep. Good night Stiles.” And with that, Erica slips her arm through Boyd's walking out of the clearing with a predatory grace, stepping over charred carcases and the ring of ash easily. Lydia walks up to the sleepily smiling Stiles, kissing him softly on the cheek before following Erica's example and dragging Jackson out of the clearing with a pointed look at Derek.  
Sighing, Derek gently picks Stiles up in his arms before walking to his Camaro which has been hiding in the shadows, opening the passenger and depositing the sleeping boy in the leather seat.  
And if Stiles smiles when Derek carries him into his house and places him in his bed, crawling under the covers with him, then all Stiles has to do is smile again and tell himself that he is asleep and convince himself of that truth before drifting off with the heat of a certain alpha radiating against his back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a little visit from Lestrade.
> 
> Or, where the threads have been strung and the mystery wants some fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, my ignoring of family naturally got taken as being antisocial so I was shunned from my computer T.T I find it slightly twisted that the days I have off I should have the most time for writing, but because life is twisted that way, the days that I have the most time for writing is the weekdays. How wrong is that? Its actually really sad. The days I have schoolwork and practice and who-knows-what, is the time for writing instead of th weekends being used the way they are supposed to be used as time for writing and relaxation. Just sad:'(

Shoving the client out the door with the promise of a much more interesting case, Sherlock whirls around to Lestrade, hand held out imploringly. Accompanied with a sigh, Lestrade hands over the folder from Mycroft, watching slightly anxious at the look on the detectives face.  
Eyebrows happily shooting into his forehead, Sherlock murmurs underneath his breath, already collecting facts and other important things. Lestrade, becoming impatient, paces along the middle of the messy flat, only stopping to stare at Sherlock Holmes.  
“Well?” Lestrade gives in to impatience to speak to Sherlock. Pushing himself off of the wall he was leaning against, John steps over next to Lestrade, his arms crossed and his chin pointing down slightly.  
“Yes Sherlock, would you not mind telling us if you are going to take it or not?” Sherlock seemingly snaps out of his thoughts, possibly from John finally speaking, to stare at Lestrade, eyes hard.  
“Stop it.” Confused, Lestrade continues to pace, staring at Sherlock.  
“Stop what?” Sherlock gives a disgusted exclamation before flinging the report onto the table next to an Erlenmeyer flask filled with a viscous yellow fluid, angrily letting his body fall onto the couch, rubbing his hands over his face before speaking.  
“I don't want it.” All movement stops as the consulting detective splays his hands in front of his face, about ready to become one with his mind palace.  
“Nuh uh.” John leaps forward to shove the detective off of the couch, watching with a childish grin on his face when said detective sprawls on the floor with a surprised yelp. “You, for once in your life, are going to listen and give a justifiable reason as to why the Great and Amazing Sherlock Holmes will not do a case when he has not had one in weeks. So stop being such an arse about it and explain.”  
Lestrade stares at the blond man, clearly not realizing how comfortable Sherlock and John have become in the past years. As if to give evidence to his thoughts, Sherlock sits up on the floor with a small groan, both hands straightening his purple shirt collar before standing up. A slight glower at John is all Sherlock gives him before sighing and walking over to stare at the bullet-hole riddled smiley face on the wall.  
Relenting to the twin glares he is getting, Sherlock says quickly, “There is simply not enough in that case to deem it worthwhile for me. I would rather go out to do something dastardly not good for me than do that.” Sherlock turns and walks across the room, idly stepping over the table covered in experiments on his way to continue whatever he has smuggled past John into the kitchen.  
John just rolls his eyes before sitting down in his chair, shaking out a newspaper, shooting an apologetic look to Lestrade who had wilted at Sherlock's reply. But soon enough, having flipped through the file once more, Lestrade perks up enough to speak.  
“Then obviously you did not look close enough.” A triumphant smile blazes across the otherwise bland features as Sherlock comes out of the kitchen with a smoking test tube in one hand, a pipette in the other, and a confused look on his face. Continuing confidently, Lestrade shakes the folder in his general direction, “These murders are not just happening in London, they have altogether stopped in Britain and have moved on.”  
Scoffing, Sherlock rolls his eyes before returning to the kitchen, his voice scolding, “Then why should I be concerned about that?”  
Having put down the paper, John stares at Lestrade with a look in his eyes that Donovan knows all to well and Lestrade hurries on. “You should be worried about it because this person targeted people only on your homeless network. Then, the person seemed to have figured that a little fun needed to be involved and has moved these murders to America. Specifically targeting children in a random town known as Beacon Hills.”  
Another scorn filled laugh reaches their ears along with some slight cursing and a shatter of glass. “So? I still do not see why I am being dragged into this.”  
John rolls his eyes before saying, “Sherlock, you had better have not broken anything important to us normal people. You know how sentimental we get. Now for once listen because when you are pleading for your stash in the next hour, you will not be finding any sympathy from me or Mrs. Hudson.”  
Conveniently coming up with the tea she had promised them when Lestrade had first come, Mrs. Hudson prevents the conversation when she puts the tray down and gives Sherlock a look saying, “Just this once dears, I'm not your landlady.”  
Smiling cordially at her, John nods and replies, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock comes out of the kitchen then, wincing slightly as he wraps a cloth around the thin fingers of his right hand. Mrs. Hudson titters nervously before leaving the flat, closing the door behind her.  
“Fine, I won't be an arse for long, just explain and then leave.” Sherlock glares at John before sitting on the couch next to him, his mind temporarily focused on his fingers.  
“Well, as I had said before, the killer has targeted children all in high school. They all attend the same school but the killer left two things on two of the bodies.” Lestrade pulls out two pages from the file, extending them toward the detective and the army doctor. “The first one was found on a body in London, a twelve year old girl, and the second was found on a body in Beacon Hills, the victim torn to shreds was a little bit older, only sixteen. All the bodies have the same appearance of being torn apart by animals but the murder done by a human.” John leans against Sherlock's shoulder to read the two notes, both equally as disturbing as the photos being placed on the table. The first reads:

It has been so fun  
to come and run  
with others in the world  
not using a gun.  
But I must say  
I would love to play  
in my own territory  
some soon, soon day.  
Would you like to come and play, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? I will be eagerly waiting your arrival.

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he takes in the neat, almost calligraphy handwriting, spouting facts about the writer.  
“Right handed, male, middle aged, slight tremor that get firmer when continuing, so some tragedy has happened in the mans life, most likely a killing of all or most family members.” Those blue eyes narrow even more and the still bleeding hands bring the paper closer to his face, lips moving quickly as the words are read again. “Writer has just come out of a coma from said tragedy and is confident enough to be writing. Hmm, interesting indeed.”  
John scoffs openly. “How is this in any way interesting?” Rolling his eyes at his partners question, Sherlock continues his deductions.  
“Well obviously this man is used to expensive things. That can be told by the calligraphy writing that is as natural as if he was born with it and the fact that the paper is 14th century, French aristocratic, watermarked and authentic. He is familiar with this paper by the way that he uses calligraphy to show the papers creamy colour and texture. On to the next one.”  
And at that, they both turn to the second page in Sherlock's less bloodied hand. The note is much simpler than the first reading:

I have waited and waited for this day that promises fun and joy so please do not disappoint me you two. I grow impatient. So less here and more there, just remember, you have been warned.

“Blocky handwriting completely different than the first, written after a great shock, using a ballpoint pen. Written on back of receipt most likely stolen because his man is definitely not a Alexandra Smith. Still written naturally, same person also.” Neither of the two men listening bat an eye at the steady stream coming from Sherlock's mouth, Lestrade seeming eager where John nods his head and looks at Sherlock with a glint in his eye.  
Leaning forward on his chair, Lestrade interrupts Sherlock. “So you will do it then?”  
Sherlock opens his mouth but John gets to speak first, “Oh, bugger off Sherlock, we both know that you want to do it so just say so and Lestrade will give us the tickets to go.”  
Miffed at being interrupted twice in no less than a minute, Sherlock replies unhappily, “I was going to say yes anyway. Now then Lestrade, do warn the authorities in Beacon Hills and we shall be on our merry little way.”  
Lestrade pulls out a package from the inside of his coat pocket, handing the tickets to John before looking down at the pictures on the table. The yellow police tape shown in the scenes are a stark contrast to the deep burgundy red of splattered blood. John sees the way the killer has methodically ripped apart the torso, tearing down to the abdomen and then going back up to the head, disemboweling like a little five year old going on a tantrum. Sherlock looks down at the bodies, noticing the way the killer has torn a specific pattern in the victims.  
Always starting from the low abdomen and slowly going up to the sides of the ribs and up through the throat, back down the other side and around, the tears completing the spiral near the heart, a bloodied mess around the body as the internal juices have spilled onto the ground, mixing into a slush filled blood puddle. The legs and arms thrown haphazardly over the usually ten by ten area of blood and gore.  
Lestrade notices their looks and says, “Bloody awful way to die for people so young eh?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles reveals a little seperation anxiety, the awesomes he has in his room and a weird bondy thingy between Derek and Stiles.
> 
> Oh, and Sheriff comes into the picture during a pack snuggly happiness party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So......yeah.......I have no idea where I pulled this from, but I did not have to go over it that much......snow day tomorrow....whoo.....I should sleep for the next year or so.....so if I don't post, you will know where I am....in a nice warm cocoon of blankets.....and occasional wakefulness to eat.....I now want to be a cat....or a bear....please ignore me now...yeah.....

Stiles dimly listens as his father talks to him, happily munching his way through his box of curly fries, bobbing his head to the quiet music. Something Sheriff says however, causes the happy munching to stop, his head flipping up quickly to stare at his father. Sheriff laughs at the look on his sons face when a few fries fall out of his mouth at the sudden movement. Stiles tries to garble his way through a question, growling at himself when he has to swallow thickly, waving his hands as if to help the fries down his throat quicker.  
“Ah, say that again?”  
Sheriff rolls his eyes before commenting, “I knew you were not listening. I said that we will be hosting two detectives from London so they can help us with these murder cases.”  
“Us? Us as in us us?” Stiles narrows his eyes before continuing, curly fries momentarily forgotten in his loose grip. “Us as in our house us? Us as in these two strangers are going to be sleeping in our house? Why can they not sleep in a hotel or at the station or something?”  
“Stiles.” Sheriff sighs, “I offered and they said they would appreciate it. Detective Inspector Lestrade is going to be staying at Deputy Williams so be happy we don't have three strange men staying at our house.” Stiles shakes his head in disbelief before realizing something.  
“Dad.”  
Wincing at the incoming question, Sheriff replies, “Yes Stiles?”  
“You, will obviously be sleeping in your room in your bed. Two guests are going to be in our house. Where are they going to sleep? We only have three bedrooms and two are occupied. Unless,” Stiles turns a horrified stare at his father, shock written all over his face. “Please no. No. Nononono.”  
As Stiles continues to chant no to himself, clutching the fry container to his chest staring at his father, Sheriff looks at the radio for a moment before turning back to look at his son.  
“Stiles.” No reply except for the soft mumbling of the boy. “Stiles.” Sheri if says more firmly, no response causing him to sigh before yelling his sons name. “STILES.”  
Stiles jolts before guiltily looking at Sheriff, coloring slowly coming back to his cheeks.  
“Stiles, if you don't want to leave the house to sleep over at Scott's for however long this is going to take, thats fine. They can go and find another house to sleep in, I am sure they would understand.”  
Stiles interrupts, the first of his fathers words sinking in. “Wait. I get to sleep at Scott's?”  
Nodding, Sheriff continues. “Yes, I talked to Melissa and she said it would be fine. She understands.”  
“Whohooo!” Stiles' victory shout is cut off when a loud crackle from the radio cut over his voice. Listening to the voice speak, Stiles immediately perked up, his hand halfway to his mouth with more fries. “Wait. Isn't that a murder?”  
Sighing, Sheriff nods before telling Stiles with a stern look, “Go home. Eat. Do homework. Clean your room. Love you, stay safe.” Saddened at he prospect of an adventure taken away from him, Stiles sighs before opening the door of the cruiser.  
Looking over his shoulder, Stiles says, “Love you too dad. Stay safe. Have fun potentially shooting people.”  
Shaking his head, Sheriff replies, “You seem way too happy to be saying that sentence to me Stiles. Just because I'm the Sheriff does not mean I get to shoot people.”  
One eyebrow cocked, Stiles steps out of the cruiser before turning to his jeep, looking over his shoulder and saying, “Yes it does and you know it.”  
Watching as the cruiser leaves the road with a screech, the lights flashing, Stiles takes out his phone to find a text from the one and only Sourwolf.  
Pack night at mine.  
Happiness foods Stiles' body before he remembers his fathers orders to go home and clean his room, his smile falling off his face quickly. Sadly looking down at his phone, Stiles closes and locks it before putting it back into his pocket and getting into his car, not bothering to reply. Praying that his jeep will start, Stiles ignores the fact that a pair of glowing red eyes are staring at him in the woods, disappearing only when the car starts with cough, Stiles not knowing any better even if he glances warily in his back seat to the gun his father does not know he has, the clip of wolfsbane bullets pulling his attention even as he drives down the opposite direction his father had.

 

Shoving the headphones off his ears, Stiles cocks his head as he reaches into the oven while pulling out the enchiladas he had made for dinner, the cheesy goodness filling the air as another hammer on the door followed by moans and shouts causes him to hurriedly put the pan on the oven to cool, running to the counter before vaulting over it and running down the hall.  
Sliding to a stop at the door, Stiles recognizes the voices clamoring before the door is pounded again an a voice shouts, “Come on Stiles! Open the door!”  
Muttering under his breath, Stiles puts his bat near the umbrella rack before sliding the chain lock off the rail and letting it dangle against the door with a cheerful clatter, going on his tippy-toes to start at the top of the door and make his way down to the bottom of the door, unlocking each padlock or keypad with swift movements of his fingers and wrists, the noise on the outside of his door quieting with each click and snap.  
Finally opening the door with a twist of the knob, Stiles looks at each pack member before narrowing his eyes and saying quietly, “You do realize that I have a front door Derek and you could have been normal like the rest of them? I really need to update my window security if this is going to be ongoing.”  
Erica pushes past him to walk into his house, turning to stare at the extensive amount of locks on the door.  
With an impressed and slightly wary nod of her blond head, she looks at Stiles and asks, “So when did you become paranoid and who knew about this?” Ignoring the thud from his room upstairs, Stiles motions Isaac, Boyd and Scott into the hallway before replying.  
“As far as I was aware only my dad. Come.” And with that, Stiles turns and walks to the kitchen, pulling out enough plates for everyone while Isaac gets out the utensils, Erica, Boyd and Scott all sitting on the counter. When Stiles starts to dish out the enchilada, Boyd finally speaks, Scott chuffing slightly before closing his mouth.  
“Alright, that's enough. Now tell us what's the matter before we have to force it out of you.” Startled, Stiles looks up, the cheese dripping onto the counter before Isaac can get a plate underneath it.  
“What do you mean?”  
“We mean that you have something on your mind, otherwise you would not have ignored my text and skipped pack night altogether and we would not be here having this conversation.” Stiles guiltily starts at Derek's low voice, turning to stare at him as he steps down the last few steps on the stairs, his eyes latched onto Stiles.  
“Well,” Stiles shifts uncomfortably under the gazes of the werewolves. “Because of the murders there are three detectives coming from London to help the department out and two of them are going to be staying here.”  
When Stiles pauses for too long, Derek narrows his eyes and steps up to the counter. “And?”  
“Well, that means that I have to clean my room so one of them can sleep there because we only have three rooms.” Another uncomfortable pause as Derek steps away from behind Scott and Boyd to stand in front of Stiles.  
“So? What's so bad about cleaning your room?”  
Glaring at Scott, Stiles snaps, “Well, if you had not already noticed, I am friends with a werewolf pack and I appear to be the one that all you guys come to when hurt or in need of comfort. So naturally I have all sorts of magical things in my room that should not exist in the normal human world. Let me see, I have somewhere around ten pounds of wolfsbane in the back of my closet, a pistol in my Jeep, a disturbing amount of magic books and oh yeah, I have a fucking wolfsbane infused silver sword underneath my bed, not to mention anything else I may have accumulated over the past year, so I'm freaking out just a little bit at the extensive cleanup job that has to happen in three days.”  
Breathing heavily, Stiles glares at all of them before going to the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk, placing it on the counter before sighing deeply. Derek steps up behind Stiles and places his hands on the counter, bracketing Stiles in. Everybody watches when Derek thumps his head down lightly on the middle of Stiles' hunched back between the shoulder blades, Stiles stiffening slightly before relaxing at the touch. When Stiles relaxes enough to lean his head back, baring his throat, Derek speaks.  
“Good thing pack night moved to your house then. We can help clean before your dad gets back.” Stiles straightens quickly, Derek's head resting on his shoulder until Stiles turns around frowning.  
“But,” Derek puts one hand over Stiles' mouth, baring his bunny teeth at Stiles, effectively shutting him up.  
“But nothing. Tonight is pack night and we are going to clean your room before watching a movie and eating ridiculous amounts of popcorn and you are going to deal.” Under Derek's firm gaze, Stiles can do nothing but glare back before grabbing his plate and heading to the stairs, glancing behind him when the pack does not immediately follow.  
“Well? You guys coming?” Nodding silently to the high pitched squeals of Erica and Scott, Derek follows Stiles up the stairs to his room, noticing the way he nervously glances at his bed and the closet before putting his plate onto his desk next to his laptop. Boyd claims the desk chair, sitting on hit backwards and resting his forearms on the chair back, Isaac and Scott leaning against the headboard of the bed together with Erica laying on their laps. Cocking one eyebrow at Derek, Stiles gently shoves him out of the way before kneeling next to the side of the bed and pulling out his lacrosse stick.  
Smooth worn wood shining in the dim light a sharp contrast to the bright silver metal that is peeking out of the shaft, a twist of a wrist closing the sheath with a quick click. Stiles gently places the blade on the bed, a warning glare telling the three on the bed not to touch.  
Over the next hour, Stiles purges his bedroom of any and all magical doohickeys that should not be there, Derek and Boyd helping occasionally. After Erica jerks awake for the second time, she stiffly gets up from her pillow of Isaac and Scott and stands in front of Stiles, glaring at him.  
“And seeing as this is pack night, I deserve a movie, popcorn and cuddles.”  
Grinning up at the lengthy blond, Stiles nods in agreement saying, “Yep. I could use that too. Last one down gets the floor!” Bolting out of his room cackling, Stiles makes it down in record time, Derek right behind him and the rest following quickly after at the sudden change into movement.  
“Hahaha! I get to pick the movie! Batman all the way! Now then, Isaac get the popcorn, Scott stop giving me the puppy eyes and Erica come cuddle, the rest of you do whatever. And someone put the movie in.” Isaac goes into the kitchen and Erica curls up against Stiles' side like a large cat, Boyd bending down to put the movie in as Scott curls around Erica and Derek sitting on the other side of Stiles, his arm along the back of the couch. The sharp staccato pops of the corn kernels in the steady hum of the microwave blend disjointed with the booming of the bass drums and the blaring brass int the opening of the movie, the television lighting up the room.  
A loud beep and Isaac murmurs happily to himself before wandering into the living room and sitting on the couch with the rest of therm, squeezing himself into the small gap between Scott and Erica, leaning back against Boyd's broad chest. As the familiar voice narrates the opening scene, everybody relaxes as one, snuggling down into the warmth they provide for each other, the crunching of popcorn barely heard over the blasting movie.

Being all happy and snuggly in a pile of teenagers and friends is one thing, but not noticing the Sheriff walk in on the happy scene until he speaks is another thing completely.  
“I do remember saying that you are going to be sleeping over Scott's, but when did this turn into a movie night with all your friends?”  
Jolting off of Isaac and Erica, Stiles stares wide-eyed at his father before weakly splaying his hands and shaking them saying, “Surprise?” At the expectant eyebrow from Sheriff, Stiles winces before continuing. “They helped me clean. It did not take as long and I wasn't as distracted as normal.”  
Rubbing his face with his hands, Sheriff sighs heavily before looking a his son and his friends, realizing for the first time who else is in Stiles' company. Derek stiffens slightly when the Sheriff's narrowed gaze lands on him, his hands stilled.  
“Hello Derek. I did not realize that you where friends with my son. Why are you here?” Erica, Boyd, Scott and Isaac still when those hands twitch lower to this belt, suspiciously close to his still holstered pistol. Swallowing before answering, Derek steps up to the theoretical firing line.  
“We are friends through family connections and some background research of ancestry.” Brown eyes and wrinkles narrow even more, but they relax at the acceptable answer from the previous murder suspect.  
“Thought so. Stiles, if you would not mind coming and talking with me for a moment?” Stiles pales, Erica patting him on the shoulder before he gets up and follows his father out of the room with a backwards glance to the warm pile of tense bodies.  
“What's up dad?”  
Turning sharply, Sheriff Stilinski says, “Cut the crap Stiles and tell me why you are snuggling comfortably with people who have been put in for possible murder and a man who technically could be doing statutory rape on all of you?” With a disgusted look on his face, Stiles offers his wrist to his father, fingers wrapping around it and the tips of two fingers resting on his pulse.  
“Oh you know, I just happen to be doing it with the hottest people in the school at the moment. And by the way before you can ask, Derek is not doing any of that with us, and no, he is not buying us booze.”  
Nodding satisfied with his sons answers, Sheriff releases his sons wrist before shaking a finger at him sternly.  
“Remember, be safe and consensual and don't do more than three at a time.” Scott laughs out loud at that, Erica and Isaac muffling their laughter in the popcorn bowl.  
Weakly murmuring consent under his breath, Stiles walks back tot he couch in a daze before falling onto his pillow. A loud squawk follows Sheriff Stilinski up the stairs and he smiles at the varying laughter behind him. Low rumbles and high bouncing peals all in perfect harmony and peace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interaction between the two.
> 
> Enough said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahahahahaaa! Feels, interaction, and painful backstories. Need I say more?

“Now then, Sherlock?” Lestrade turns to said man, glaring at him as he stands coolly under the awning, glaring at Americans who come too close.   
“Yes Lestrade?” John nudges Sherlock with his elbow, bringing him back to the world of normalcy with his physical touch.  
One corner of his mouth quirking up, Lestrade continues, “The people you are staying with are a nice family, do not say anything too upsetting. I am not too worried about that because you have John with you, but it still requires repeating. In two days you will be brought into the station so we can start and try not to antagonize the locals that much.” Turning to John as a cruiser with Deputy emblazoned across the side in golden tones, Lestrade gives him a soft look. “Good-luck.”  
John nods as a short, lean man steps out of the cruiser, hand extended towards Lestrade, a welcoming smile on his face.  
“Hello, I am Deputy Williams, you must be Detective Inspector Lestrade. And these two must be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?” John nods and steps forward, his hand outstretched as Sherlock does his usual look up and down the man, eyes taking in every important detail.  
“Yes, we hope we won't be inconveniencing this town with ourselves too much.” Laughing loudly at that, Deputy Williams obviously misses the look Sherlock gives him, but John nudges him again before he even takes a breath to speak.  
“Oh no. You three are most likely bringing in the color that this town needs. Sheriff Stilinski will be here after he checks in at the office and makes sure Stiles is settled so it will only be about a five minute wait. Would you...” Williams trails off when John sighs in exasperation and Lestrade shakes his head vigorously when Sherlock laughs, his baritone raised in mirth.  
“Oh John, have I ever told you what I think of people?” Sensing the future humiliation for him, Lestrade decides that he would rather save it for later when a larger audience is present and quickly speaks over Sherlock.   
“And that is our cue to leave. You can get introduced properly in two days, yeah? Well, we will be going mates.” Sherlock receives a glare from Lestrade and another perplexed look from Williams before they both get into the cruiser, pulling out of the small airport. Sherlock turns to John as the car pulls out into traffic, a sharp look in his eyes.   
“What was that for? I wanted to loosen my mind. You know what it does to me when I have to spend over six continuous hours on a plane next to a crying three year-old.” Sherlock shudders as John bites back a small smile. “Please, never let me get on a plane again. It was awful.”   
Nodding slightly sympathetically, John pats Sherlock on the shoulder before replying, unable to keep the smile out of his mouth. “I do believe that was the point. Lestrade seemed quite happy to give you the bad seat in revenge for anything that you may do or say here. And this must be the Sheriff.”  
Sherlock glares at the back of John's head, another Beacon Hills police cruiser coming up the the sidewalk, the sunlight glaring sharply across the windshield keeping the drivers face out of the view of Sherlock's gaze.   
Humming happily under his breath, Sherlock murmurs softly to John, “He does seem to be a good character judging from the car. But he does have a son in high school due to the fact that a Sheriff's police car should not have that type of scratches and dents in the front fender. Dead wife, drinking problem when he has a bottle in his hand for too long and his son is keeping secrets from him for what he thinks is for his father's own protection. And interesting family this.”   
They watch as the man unfolds himself from the car, his gray hair the first thing they see. A warm smile on a face littered with bitterness greets them, a steady hand held in front of him in their direction. Brown eyes flick from both faces, taking in the sight of one disheveled young man in a pea coat, the collar turned up and the coat unbuttoned revealing a lithe body and a tight shirt. They take in the sight of an older man standing with his back straight, hands behind his back and blue eyes steadily looking him in the eye. The sun glints across his blond hair while the light is sucked into the sable lengths of the taller mans, but the shorter one is who gives Sheriff Stilinski the greater sense of familiarity.   
“Hello. I am Sheriff Stilinski, welcome to Beacon Hills.” John smiles and takes the extended hand, smiling warmly in return.  
“Thanks. I am Dr. John Watson and this here is-” John is interrupted by his colleague, mouth tightening slightly but not overly surprised.  
“Sherlock Holmes at your service. Now may we get out of this bloody weather? The sunlight has given me a worse headache than the three-year old on the plane did.” Sheriff Stilinski blinks before nodding his head, walking to the back of his car and popping the trunk, motioning them to place their bags there.  
“Sorry about that. I never liked plane rides myself. But we will go straight back to the abode and you two can get settled.” John opens the back door and slides in, biting back another sigh when Sherlock swings himself into the same door, forcing John to the other side of the backseat. “Stiles will not be home until later, but you will get the pleasure of his acquaintance soon enough.” John nods his head and watches with a soft look in his eye as Sherlock crosses his arms and closes his eyes, leaning his head against the window, his face relaxing as he immerses himself in his palace.  
“We do appreciate you hosting us, and as my companion gets over his headache we will be right on track.” John stares out the window as he speaks, a troubled look on his face as Sheriff pulls out of the parking lot and goes down the street, unaware of Sherlock watching him through his eyelashes. Sheriff flicks on the lights on top of the car, speeding up past the numerous cars in his way, expertly weaving through the traffic to get to his exit before pulling off onto a quieter road.  
“Oh, it's not a problem. Just had to tidy a few things up. And anyways, there will be a murder in the next few days I'd reckon.” At that sentence, said both with frustration and acceptance, Sherlock sits up suddenly, his eyes narrowing.  
“And why would you say that?” John barely glances at Sherlock when he starts to interrogate Sheriff Stilinski and instead watches the woodland as it passes by.  
“Well, the killer has been consistent on a few things. He always kills them in the same age range, from eighteen to fourteen. He has always killed them with the spiral tears and gouges and always in woods or areas without witnesses or cameras.” Sheriff grimaces as he pulls off the main road and onto a side street, waving at a woman walking her dog. “And, he has killed all these people in at least a week of each murder. The last one was on Thursday of last week with the note summoning you two here. He's quite a character isn't he?”  
Sherlock nods, surprising John with the way he restrains himself from revealing all he knows to be true. He instead closes his mouth and resumes his position like before, watching John through his eyelashes and watching the unconscious habits of the Sheriff.  
Nothing extraordinary happens on the short ride to their hosts house, at least not until they open the doors of the car and step out onto the little driveway leading up to a small house with a nice lawn and one open window on the right side of the second story. John stiffens immediately, his eyes on the roof, following a figure invisible to Sherlock and the Sheriff. Sheriff Stilinksi does not notice it because John loosens as soon as he stiffens, nothing escaping Sherlock's gaze however.   
John ignores his partners critique, following the Sheriff to the back of the car to collect their bags, calling to Sherlock, “You had better come and get your bags because you know what I will do if I find any experiments in these.”  
Sherlock immediately and quickly goes to the trunk, collecting two of his bags with utmost care, still content with picking apart the roof of the house, not seeing anything to answer for John's strange behavior. But he does notice the way, when they walk over the threshold of the front door, that John winces slightly, pushing past the threshold viciously before standing at the base of a staircase.  
“It's not much but it's big enough. Follow me, the bedrooms are on the second floor.” Obediently, John and Sherlock follow him up the stairs, bags in hand. “The bathroom is down the hall, second on the left. This is guest room number one here, and the second one is this one right across the hall.” John walks into the first one only to step back out sneezing viciously. Sherlock steps out of the second room, allowing a look of concern to flash across his face before nudging John in the direction of the other room, setting his bags at the foot of the bed.  
“I never knew you had an allergy.” Sherlock comments lazily, standing in the center of the room and turning slowly around, surveying his temporary domain.  
Concerned, the Sheriff steps forward, watching as John continues to cough, one arm pressed against his face while the other grips the bottom bedpost, his knuckles turning white.  
“Umm, are you all right? Do you need water or anything?” Sheriff shifts on his feet, looking at Sherlock, probably wondering why he is not doing anything to help his colleague. But what does surprise him about Sherlock is that he whirls around immediately when John sits down hard on the bed, his shoulders heaving as he coughs.   
“Not...supposed....to happen.” John wheezes out between bursts of coughing and gagging, his chest almost touching his knees on the bed. Sherlock rushes to his side, a painful grimace flashing across as he realizes he is having the thing he despises most, emotions.  
“I do believe the water would be best please.” Sherlock dismisses Sheriff, and steadies John by holding onto his knees, one deft hand gripping the sturdier mans shoulder.  
“There was noting in the room that should have given you an allergic reaction of this severity. There is no dust on anything and the floor is clean with no cigarette or any other powder in between the floorboards and there are no plants. The only way you could have had an attack was if you are allergic to anything strange like fabric, or a metal or wood.” Sherlock's voice and his strange concern about John's reaction seem to have an effect of John.  
He stops coughing as much, and he raises his head to meet light blue eyes with dark blue, the back of his hand still to his mouth. Shuddering with leftover coughs, John nods his head, straightening his shoulders with determination.  
“That's because it wasn't an allergic reaction.” Pulling his hand away from his mouth, Dr. John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers looks down with distaste at the smear of glistening blood, his eyes distant on some unseen memory reliving his painful past. Sherlock blanches slightly at the sight of red on the corner of John's mouth, but he refuses to move from his crouched position in front of John, one hand on his knee and the other still on his shoulder. And like the soldier he is at heart, John forces past the pain and tells his story.  
“When I was a normal man, a captain and a doctor in the army, I knew of the stories told by the captives of war, the hard core veterans. They told of how they where starved and how they were treated like trash under the opposing armies feet. I had never realized just how much they had suffered until we were at Maiwand. The Afghans had closed in when I was hit with a bullet, my left shoulder exploding with pain, the shouts and screams of my fellow doctors seeping into my pain induced faint.  
After that, I had no idea what was going on except for the continuing screams and roars, the pain flourishing with each death, my subconscious screaming with them each time one of my friends fell. I woke up a while after that, alive, but certainly not well. I was struck with the enteric fever. The pain would not let go and not only did I have that god awful fever, they also decided to torture me as well. Oh, they did their normal torture for prisoners of war, waterboarding and sensory deprivation, they also took a sadistic glee in the electrocution part. Dousing me with water and electrocuting, starving me and electrocuting, but not only that, they chained me to a wall by my ankles and wrists, leaving me to sweat and pant after screaming my throat raw.  
They also decided to teach the new recruits how much electric shock a man could take before insanity or whatnot. Good for me and not for them was that we were saved and I healed. But not enough that those people in my regiment would ever leave the cavern they left in my soul. It tears me apart each time I remember them.  
I don't remember them by their faces or their voices and their way with needles and gauze, I remember them by the guttural, animalistic scream that were drawn out of them for pleasure, each one of them tearing through me in its own separate kind of torture.”  
Sherlock stares as John quiets slowly, the end of his story dwindling down to silence, staring down at his clenched hands, the smear of blood now dried on his skin with one finger slowly picking it off. A squeak of floorboards brings Sherlock's attention to the doorway, seeing Sheriff Stilinski standing there with a glass of water in his hand.   
“So I'm guessing I should be asking some questions right now, but I don't think that would go over so well so I am going to let you guys get settled before anything else.” At Sherlock's nod, Sheriff turns around and walks down the hall to his room, closing the door softly behind him. At the soft click, John violently jumps, one hand going to his side where his pistol should have been. Gentler than most people in Britain would have thought, Sherlock covered John's hands with his, and placed them on the edge of the bed. John takes a deep, shuddering breath before relaxing his shoulders and fists, looking up through his hair at Sherlock. The taller man considers showing more emotion but decides against it because it would be unfair to the fragile man in front of him.  
Instead, he eases John out of his jumper and brushes one of his shoulders with his cut fingers, watching the way he unconsciously leans into them for comfort. As he hangs the jumper on the hook behind the door, he listens as John stands up and walks to his bags, pulling out a long thin object from one of them and placing it beside the head of the bed. When Sherlock turns back, he sees that John has gotten his cane. Answering to the raised eyebrow, John speaks softly and slowly, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep.  
“The flashbacks cause sickness and yes, my psychosomatic limp does come back. I will sleep roughly for the next few nights and do try not to sneak up on me or startle me. I will react like I would have in the war, and most of the time it was never fun for anybody when that happened.” Sherlock says nothing, but turns to the door to leave, his fingers lightly trailing down John's arm before leaving John to his sleep and peace.   
John does not move when Sherlock closes the door, nor does he move for a while after. Instead, he relives his past, the calm demeanor on the outside a false truth about his inside. The memories of screaming men and roaring beasts does nothing to sway the fact that those are just that. The past. Nothing less and nothing more. They have shaped the man sitting on the bed, but they have only shaped part of him. The part not shaped is the one most people see and the part shaped is only seen by those he can trust enough with the truth. He was a broken man once, and if they are the right one, maybe they can fix him.   
Because underneath the calm, placid face, there is a crying one, and a pained one, and one with a fierce expression of determination. The face that has seen things no has ever hoped to see and the face that can barely contain the ever close lust for blood.  
Because once you kill for your life, it gets easier each time you do. It gets easier to watch as one living thing in front of you dies, its throat slit or a bullet through the forehead.   
Because once you kill, it awakens a beast inside you, hungering for more.

 

Sherlock closes the door behind him with a soft click, keeping the disturbing thoughts in his ever racing head from surfacing. He never asked about the time in war for John, he knew it would hurt too much, even now. So he does what he can to help his friend.   
After settling his things in the room, he pads downstairs and lies on the couch, steepling his hands in front of his face as he thinks. 

 

“Scott, we'll be in really quick, I just need to get a couple of books for-” Stiles stops speaking after the front door swings open and he finds a strange man laying on the couch. Curly black hair on top of an angular face, lithe body outlined by black pants and a purple button down. Smart shoes and a pea coat do nothing to stop Stiles from bursting into action.  
He makes sure Scott is not immediately wolfed out from the sight of the man on the couch before stepping over the coffee table and in front of the man, noticing the relaxed way he breathes and the way he does not twitch when the familiar shing of a blade being drawn echoes quietly in the room.  
Stiles glares at Scott so he will stop growling, noticing the extended fangs and the flashing eyes, not allowing his blade to lower any further to the still softly rising and falling chest. He turns back to the sleeping man, studying his features as he sleeps, frowning slightly when he realizes the man is not actually asleep but in some sort of trance. Focusing on the lessons Deaton had pounded into his head, Stiles relaxes his mind and reaches out to the one on the couch, the blue and silver swirls attracting him like a bee to honey.  
Just as he touches the surface, he realizes with a jolt that a new mind has entered the surrounding area of the room, this color darker and more painful to bear. Contrasting with the light swirling and rocketing colors of the obvious genius in front of him, the darker shades of royal purple and gold swirling slower in the doorway to the stairs.   
Listening to the low growl coming from Scott, Stiles realizes something with another soft jolt.  
The colors coming from Scott, green and copper, are outlined with a soft mist of wolfsbane purple like every werewolf Stiles has met so far. But the purple and gold has a shade of wolfsbane mist surrounding it like Stiles has never seen except in one person before. The two darker shades of purple both matching with the two True Alphas bounce off the silver and blue on the couch, creating a rainbow of colors, some reacting in flashes and swirls with the two strangers in the room.   
Stiles opens his eyes and look sup to the doorway, meeting the gaze of red unflinchingly of a pale blond man, recognizing the protective rumble from the ,am with a slight nod. Wary with the silver blade still hovering above his pack members chest, John Watson steps out of the darkness of the stairwell to fully meet the eyes of the two boys in the room.   
He only recognizes the one holding the word fully until he calls out, “Dad, please tell me these guys are from London and not muggers or robbers or something.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles shows more badassedness and helps a little friend!
> 
> Or where Stiles is slightly panicking and Scott does not help with the nerves at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah...

John was not surprised when the boy holding the sword above Sherlock's chest yelled out to his father in his room, asking who himself and Sherlock where. Neither was he surprised with Sheriff's answer of  
“No, now do not kill them, we need them.”  
He was, however, surprised that when his knees gave out the son, Stiles, leapt forward and caught him from falling face first on the floor.   
And what Stiles was not expecting when he caught John was the heat seeping from the man to him through all three layers between them.   
Immediately he orders Scott around to get things ready in the guest bedroom.  
“Get the sack out of the back of my closet, don't touch anything in it and you will not be effected, call Deaton, get a bowl of warm water and some vanilla and lemon. Go.” Scott complies, leaping up the stairs, leaving Stiles with John.  
“Okay.” Stiles mutters under his breath. “Hey, you need to help me, I am not going to be able to carry you all the way up the stairs and I would appreciate it if my dad did not come in on this.” John nods feebly with on of his arms draped across Stiles' shoulders. “Damn, how did you get down here all by yourself? Wait, look at who I am taking to, another True Alpha why do I even ask these questions?”  
Stiles nudges John with his hip, leading the wobbly man to the bottom of the stairs before grunting and heaving him bodily up the first two steps. Half-way up the stairs Scott comes down and ducks under John's other side, helping Stiles carry him up the rest of the way.  
“Okay, Scott bring him in to the room and make sure he lies down, I am going to prepare it all. You called Deaton yes?” At Scott's nod, Stiles ducks into his room and falls on one floorboard, running his hands over it before muttering an incantation under his breath and letting the magic under his skin crackle to the surface. The board glows blue under his hands for a moment before disappearing completely, leaving an empty space underneath. A quick check on the area surrounding his house and on his dad before Stiles plunges one arm shoulder deep into the hole between his bedroom floor and the living room, his hand groping around in the familiar darkness for the object he is searching for.   
Scott walks in when Stiles winces at a nip of teeth on his fingers, muttering, “Not now Billy, I'm busy.”  
Paling at the sight of his friend talking to something that he has no idea why is under the floorboards and Scott says weakly, “Um, he is on the bed and he is kinda not moving and is really pale and his heartbeat is weak and why was he so effected by wolfsbane?”  
Rolling his eyes at his ling-time friend and Stiles brightens when he finds what he was looking for and pulling out an old leather-bound book, along with some very large spiderwebs attached to the cover. Stiles ignores the spiderwebs and says the incantation again, the floorboard reappearing just in time for what is presumably Billy making a very large thump, the board bending under its weight. Scott jumps at the thud, but Stiles smiles satisfied before opening the book with a puff of dust, waving a hand in front of his face as he walks through it, following the retreating Scott across the hall.  
“Well for one thing Scott,” Stiles says as he walks into the room, looking with worried eyes at the panting werewolf on the bed, setting the book open on a certain page on top of the dresser. “You guys, the Hale/McCall pack, are a group of werewolves frequently exposed to wolfsbane in varying concentrations. John Watson right here is a werewolf from Europe were there is not as much offense to the supernatural than in America. So when he was born, he was not exposed to as much wolfsbane as the American werewolves so this is a severe reaction to such a high quantity. Also, the European werewolves differ from the American branch of werewolves so they have different, let us say, abilities. Their alphas can take the form of an actual wolf if they so desire, such as you, but unlike Derek. They can roam freely from their pack in search of a new pack and not become an Omega and they have a small line of magic in their blood. Here in America, that magic has almost been bred out of you guys but not in Europe because they-they inbred to a certain extent. But enough of that and give me Deaton.”  
Scott wordlessly hands the phone to Stiles, jumping slightly when John nods his head before letting it loll to the side, causing a loud curse to come from Stiles' mouth.  
“Hey, Deaton, listen we have a European True Alpha in my guest bedroom and he is having a reaction to the wolfsbane I have in my closet. Yes, he got past the mountain ash I have around the house. Hmm? Yep, yep. Okay. Kay, I will call you if anything else happens. Bye.” Stiles steps over to the warm bowl of water on the bedside table and reaches for the vanilla, opening the cap and allowing a few drops to seep into the water before grabbing the heavy bag of wolfsbane from the door to sprinkle a few sprigs into the water, the leafy boughs floating on the slightly brown water.   
“Scott, go and make sure my dad does not come downstairs and pray to God that Derek or anybody else shows up.” Stiles continues with his ministrations while ordering Scott around comfortably, waiting until Scott has left the room before standing and walking to the dresser and pulling out a small white cloth, reaching for the lemon and rubbing it like one would do to an orange before peeling.   
With light blue eyes watching his actions, Stiles does not peel the lemon but instead lays the lemon smelling cloth over John's forehead, smiling when he hears a quiet sigh coming from the man.   
Pleased with his scent blocking technique, Stiles moves back to the bowl with vanilla and wolfsbane, running his hands around the metal before murmuring quietly, “Amicus et lux vitae sanare infirmos.”   
The same blue light that had appeared in his room now appears in the water of the bowl, the image of a small fox appearing in the blue mist. Smiling happily, Stiles takes another towel and dabs it in the water, gently wiping it across John's face and collar bone before placing it on his chest, another smaller fox following the mist on the towel and curling up in the hollow of John's throat.   
A pleased hum follows Stiles out of the room when he closes the door softly, allowing John to his healing sleep, chuckling softly to himself when he sees Scott staring at the other sleeping man on the couch.  
“Scott,” Scott looks up at the sound of his name. “Stop staring at him like that, you'll wake him up. Now come on I have to set up the woods for our pack lacrosse game tonight for pack night.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learn more about Stiles and get a glimpse of the killer.
> 
> Or, when the pack has a lacrosse game that goes wrong(depending on what team you are on).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took me long enough to write this up what with the writer's block that i had. No guarentees as to when the next chapter may be posted. Finals suck.

Glaring at Jackson, Stiles turns to Scott, needing reassurance.  
“So, remember what I said correct? Don't do anything until you get my signal, and before you say anything,” Stiles holds up a hand to stop Scott from speaking. “My signal will be pretty obvious. Just throw the ball, I will catch it. And be ready for 'Billy' to come so just throw it at him when I give it to you, clear?” Scott nods skeptically, looking at Stiles slightly worriedly.  
“Hey losers, enough chit chatting, are you guys ready to get pummeled?” Stiles flips Jackson the bird, turning to the wolves around him. Clapping his hands together, Stiles clears his throat before speaking.  
“Alright then, the two teams are the Hale side, with Derek, Boyd, Jackson, and Lydia. And on the Stilinski side there is me, Scott, Isaac and Erica. Both teams should have already picked a goal keeper. The two goals are the Hale house, meaning the little clearing it makes when you first walk out of the woods, and the large lumpy boulder on the other side of the preserve is our goal. Jump on top and you shall score. First to ten wins. Questions, comments, concerns?” Lydia raises her hand, which would have been a lot more cute if she did not have a very menacing look on her face while she clutches her pink lacrosse stick.  
Pointing at her with one finger warily, Stiles asks, “Yes Lydia?”  
“Why are you so excited about this? Last time you ended up with bruised ribs and a concussion. Also, your team lost 21-0.” Nodding his head, Stiles gives her a maniacal look that causes her and their team to step back slightly.  
“That, my little one, is easily enough answered. The playing field has been leveled. Ten minutes to get set up at your positions, now go!” And with that, the Hale team bolts into the woods, Stiles tracking their progress as tiny floating balls of color in his head, smiling when he sees that Boyd has been chosen as their goal keeper.  
Erica turns a worried glance at Stiles saying smoothly, “And how do you expect us to beat them?”  
The maniacal glint returns and Stiles replies even smoother, “Well, let us just say, I have a few tricks up my sleeve and if I am suddenly able to sneak by them without their notice, go with it and give me the ball as much as possible. And if there is a strange occurrence that does not effect you guys and a friendly raptor comes and visits us, give him the ball.” Scott just nods his head, and Isaac stares at Stiles as if he has lost his mind. “Oh, and if you need an escape route, just shout, I'll hear. Now, Isaac, goal, everyone else, play it cool for now. Team out!”  
Isaac watches as Stiles, Scott and Erica run out of the clearing next to his boulder, clenching his fists tightly around his lacrosse stick, wondering with a shiver what Stiles is up to, because with that look, anything could be possible.

 

Stiles jogs down the hill, catching a glimpse of Scott to his left and Erica to his right as he slows near the knobbly tree marking the starting place for the game, the theoretical middle of the field. As he steps out to the tree, Derek unfolds from his shadows in the midday sun, Jackson and Lydia flanking him. One eyebrow raised, Derek steps up to the circle sprayed on the ground, waiting expectantly for the starter player for the Stilinski team.  
He and the rest of his team obviously wait for Stiles to step up, but with a cocky eyebrow raise instead, Stiles steps back and motions for Scott to take his place, walking casually over to where Scott had been standing across from Lydia.  
A smile at Lydia and Stiles whispers, “Let the games begin.”  
Scott and Derek immediately fall to the ground, wrestling for the ball with their sticks, Erica snarling at Jackson when he steps too close. Stiles just straightens from his crouch and thinks to himself, I believe that only Erica, Scott and Isaac will be able to see and hear me, and no other supernatural beings can touch me. Repeating that mantra in his head, Stiles taps the ground with his stick lightly, Scott shoving one of his shoulders underneath Derek's chest and heaving him across the clearing.  
Derek falls with a grunt, Scott scooping up the ball and with a practiced flick of his hand, passes it to Stiles who catches it and steps behind a tree line, Jackson and Derek freezing where they stand. Lydia narrows her eyes at the general area of where Stiles is before grinning defiantly, stepping forward her hand outstretched. But Scott, Erica and Stiles smile even wider when she swerves away from him at the last moment, Derek standing from his seat on the ground.  
Erica whispers, “Nice Stiles. Now, MOVE!”   
Stiles complies.  
He, Scott and Erica burst into motion, Stiles passing the ball back and forth between Scott and Erica, laughing with glee when he jumps from one ward to another, his scent flaring for a moment before disappearing again.   
He smiles even wider when he shouts, “They are pulling Boyd from the goal which means they are already worried. Plan B, now!”  
Erica falls back, lazily passing the ball over Jackson's snarling head to Scott, letting Stiles to sprint ahead, tripping his way into another ward as Derek leaps for his knees. And while Erica and Scott are keeping those three busy, Stiles calls Isaac back into the game, leading him to where the team is with a glowing ball of orange light.  
“Stiles, hurry up! Boyd is coming!” Scott shouts out before Boyd tackles him, their sticks clattering against each other with swears mingled in with snarls.  
“Sure thing Scotty!” And with that, Stiles drops his stick, closes his eyes, and concentrates. A slow build of power channeled through his feet, all the way up to his jaw, his entire body thrumming with newfound power. The faint buzzing in hos body building, Stiles continues to keep his multiple wards up, the edges shimmering with a faint silver that his team can see.  
Just as the power takes on an almost painful hotness in his chest, Stiles takes it and wraps it around him, feeling the world shift beneath his feet.  
Stretching one arm and feeling feathers extending, curling his head and feeling the ruffles ruffling as he languidly twirls his head around, getting a feel for the form before opening his golden brown eyes and taking in the clear view of the ground and forest with painful precision. Scott grins at him while Isaac and Erica gap between passes, Stiles answering them with a loud screech, flapping his wings powerfully, his taloned feet leaving the ground.  
Just as he reaches the height he wants, Stiles closes his wings and dives, heading straight for Jackson and Erica, flashing his wings open the moment he gets close enough to land on Erica's shoulder briefly, gently squeezing her shoulder with his talons before vaulting off of it, giving in to the temptation of a very loud screech in Derek's ear, closing his curved beak shut with a loud clack, soaring back into the air as Derek snarls at him.  
Another screech, this one more hissy and scratching his throat, has Scott lobbing the ball in his direction, catching it in one of his feet before using his powerful wings and flapping above the treeline, scoping out a perfect stooping line. Finding one to the front steps of Derek's porch, and Stiles has snapped his wings shut, tucking his feet close to his tail, the ball still in the cage of talons. Over the roar of wind, Stiles dimly hears Jackson swearing under his breath as Scott, Erica and Isaac bolt to the Hale house, Derek, Lydia, Jackson and Boyd hot on their tails.  
Reaching his maximum speed as branches whip by his face, Stiles snaps out his wings as he reaches the clearing, the wind filling his feathers suddenly, his stiffer flight feathers separating slightly as he soars gently to the porch, dropping the form as easily as water slides off of pig fat, grinning as his team races into the clearing.  
“Well I did tell you guys to wait for my signal did I not?” Erica tackles him with a squeal just as the Hale team races into the clearing, staring with disbelief at Stiles holding the ball in one hand with a gleeful smile plastered over his face.  
“How on earth, did you do that?” Jackson voices his confusion, watching shocked as Stiles throws the ball to Derek, unlatching Erica from his neck.  
“First things first, it is now 1-0 Stilinski team leading. Secondly, I am a magic user and you all know this. I just tweaked a few things I found in the book Alan gave me and he helped me figure out my signature magic. I, my good friends,” with another prankster grin on his face, Stiles straightens as the air around him shimmers. “Am a Shifter. And I should hope the name explains itself. But look at this! Really cool predator!”  
And Stiles goes from lanky teenage boy to a rumbling fully grown adult male Snow Leopard. Jackson scrambles backwards as Stiles leaps forward playfully, his teeth bared in challenge. Derek steps forward, his eyes flashing red and he growls deep in his throat, getting an equally deep growl from Stiles in return. Erica steps up beside Stiles, hand curling in his fur and Stiles immediately stops growling, turning dismissively from the Hale team and flicking his tail impatiently.  
Boyd growls when Stiles turns on Erica, but stops confused when she laughs, Stiles bumping her gently in the abdomen, snuffling against her side. She runs her fingers through his fur, Isaac coming up beside her with wonder written across his face, Scott beaming over his shoulder.  
“Stiles?” Isaac hesitantly approaches the other side of him, and reaches out his hand to stroke the fur.   
Stiles stops snuffling against Erica and turns his snout to face Isaac, staring at him with ice blue eyes, turning his body enough that his long fluffy tail wraps gently around Isaac's legs.  
An encouraging move to say the least when Isaac grins and digs both his hands into Stiles' fur, bringing up a deep purr from his throat, those stunning eyes closing in ecstasy. Scott at this point his buried his head under Stiles' chin to better feel the rumblings in his chest, he himself rumbling happily when he finds the sweet spot.  
“Are we going to continue with this game, or are you guys going to snuggle it out in front of Derek's house?” The unexpected voice from Jackson causes them all to jump, Stiles snarling in his direction before turning back to his team and settling down in their warmth. But what makes them all jump is the disembodied voice of Stiles coming from a blue mist on the top step of the porch.  
“Well, if you insist on getting your asses kicked by the Stilinski team, sure, why the hell not? But I must warn you, I have much more to show with this Shifter magic.” Derek and his pack stare, the Stilinski team included, as the mist congeals and takes the form of a tiny fox sitting on the front step, its tail curled around its paws as it periodically opens and closes its mouth with Stiles' voice. “Well? Are we, or are you guys just going to stare at adorable me? Oh my gosh!”  
Lydia scoffs and steps up and around the snuggly pile to the mini fox, her hand held out with wonder written across her face, but still managing to say around her smile, “Stiles, if you finish that sentence you will die.” An evil looking gleam in Stiles' blue eyes before he finished his sentence is the only warning they get.  
“I shall call him, Mini Me! Oh my god. Come on guys, while they are distracted, Isaac, go go go!” Stiles jumps up, his mini form appearing on the top of his head as he races straight towards Derek and Boyd, bowling both of them over before vanishing quickly into the woods. Scott leaps on Jackson before following, Erica swooping down and grabbing the ball with one of the forgotten lacrosse sticks on the ground before doing likewise.  
A flash of dark skirts at the edges of Stiles' vision as he softly pads around the house and he spins toward it, scrunching his face in a snarl at it, recoiling from the dark magic that curls its way slowly towards him, being forced against his will to drop his form and curl on the ground in a fetal position shuddering violently at the silent attack.  
Blinding pain courses through his body and he arches his back off the ground, mouth open in a silent scream as white and black spots dance across his vision. Just before Stiles passes out engulfed in a bed of thousands of needles, all the wards collapse in a bright flash visible to even Derek's team.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice little ride to go and visit Stiles and friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer yay! I shall now and attempt to post more frequently than I did during school! Because school sucks dick

Watching with an amused look on his face, Sherlock idly walks around the sheriff's office as John sits in a side chair, Sheriff Stilinski taking great pleasure in yelling at his incompetent deputy. Just as he is nearing the end of his tirade, Sherlock sidles up to him and whispers softly in his ear, Sheriff Stilinski turning even redder than he had been before and with a deep breath shouts at his deputy to leave his office and never return. Sheriff slowly turns around and walks to behind his desk, head hanging before sitting in his chair and staring hopelessly at the stack of files sitting in front of him.  
“I bet it does not get as bad here as it does at Scotland Yard.”  
“Well, we wouldn't know really. I try to avoid that place as much as physically possible. The low IQ's seem to lower ours just by association.” Sherlock gleefully says, a wide smile across his face, John shaking his head at his friend's antics.  
Just as Sheriff Stilinski had opened his mouth to answer, Lestrade bursts in through the door with a wild look about him.  
Sherlock takes one look and openly starts laughing, John digging up a smile from his sickened state. Lestrade glares at Sherlock before settling down on the edge of the desk, his head hanging down. Sheriff hopelessly bangs his head on his desk behind them, ignoring his guests and their antics.  
John goes over to console Sheriff as Sherlock goes to interrogate Lestrade.  
“The way you run this station is very good.” Sheriff looks up surprised as John speaks softly, leaning against the edge of his desk.  
“Thanks. You think so?”  
John nods his head, then tilts it to the side as he thinks, absentmindedly reaching behind him to grab the back of Sherlock's coat as he attempts to sneak out. “Yeah, I do. You actually run it better than some parts of the army I was in.”  
Sherlock grumbles furiously at being caught so easily, Lestrade giving them a strange look and Sheriff ignoring it, deciding that the way those two act is not his problem.  
All of their thoughts are interrupted by th sound of pounding feet and heavy breathing. The door bursts open violently, slamming against the wall and knocking down a few of the pictures hanging. Sheriff bursts to his feet as he recognizes the teens at his door, a look of panic crossing his face.  
“Stiles?”  
Sherlock grabs John and nudges Sheriff ahead of him and the teens before following him to the cruiser in the front of the station, listening to the hurried and panicked explanations of the kids.  
“He-we were playing-”  
“Lacrosse in the woods-”  
“Something happened-”  
“Kept muttering about darkness and-”  
“Screamed-”  
“We-”  
“Derek brought him to the hospital-”  
Sherlock notices the way the Sheriff tenses slightly at the name of Derek, shoving John into the back seat in front of him before getting in himself, the car already moving as he closes the door.  
“Alright, Isaac calm down and tell me exactly what happened.” The nervous boy in the passengers seat swallows thickly, his hair a mess as he opens his mouth, only to choke on a breath as the door opens and three warm bodies pile in.  
Sheriff breathes deeply in through his nose, choosing to momentarily ignore the fact that three teenagers just jumped into his car while he was driving and turns on the siren. Isaac gives a muffled shout as someone steps on him, Sherlock glancing at John and Lestrade as the scene unfolds. John is again staring out the window, a bemused look on his face, Lestrade bug eyed as an unruly blonde and a chiseled looking male tumble out from the front seat to the back, landing half across John's lap and on Lestrade's legs, someones arm across his feet. Meanwhile, up in the front, a burly dark-skinned boy has placed Isaac on his lap, one arm thrown haphazardly across his slim waist as a makeshift seat belt.  
“Oh, so Sheriff, as Isaac was about to say-” the blonde starts only to be interrupted by Sheriff.  
“Yes, would somebody please tell me what happened to my son during your lacrosse game in the woods?”  
“Sorry. But, we were all on the other side of the woods, Stiles having stayed behind as our goalie, guarding our net, and we were all wrestling for the ball-” the blonde is interupted by the chiseled male.  
“And we all heard a scream-”  
“Screw you Jackson I was talking.” The boy- Jackson- shrugs against John's knees as the dark-skinned boy up front continues while they babble.  
“And we all raced back to see Stiles on the ground writhing, still screaming mind you, his stick on the ground-”  
“And then Derek scooped him up, and with Scott, and Lydia took him to the hospital while yelling at us to get you.” Isaac finishes triumphantly, glaring at his friends in the back.  
Sheriff nods, seemingly forgetting to introduce the British detectives in the back. “So why did you guys not, I don't know, call me with your phones?”  
“I left mine in my car, Lydia, Boyd, and Erica are all getting theirs fixed, Isaac, and Scott don't have phones, and Stiles left his at home.” Jackson leans up over Erica to look out the window, John ignoring him.  
Sherlock notices, if the Sheriff doesn't, Jackson's lack of noting Derek in his list of people.  
The Sheriff pulls into the emergency lane of the hospital, all eight of them spilling out of the cruiser to proceed rushing up the stairs. A red headed girl meets the Sheriff in the emergency waiting room, bringing him in to see his son as Jackson, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica go to join another group of teen their age.  
“Sherlock, why are we here?” Lestrade mutters under his breath, John watching as Erica comforts an older male in the group, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees.  
“We are here, because I can already tell you the murderer has just made a large mistake.” Sherlock looks up from fiddling with his phone when John walks towards the teens, stopping in front of the distressed one and crouching down before him. The boy-young man-jerks in surprise before relaxing minutely, John speaking quietly to him, the rest of the teens gathering around. Erica looks up suddenly as everyone is laughing at something John said to stare at Sherlock, her eyes narrowed. He meets her gaze solidly, their staring contest interrupted as another boy slams open the doors.  
“Hey guys! The doctors said we could go in! Who? Oh, hey John.” John nods at the boy with the crooked jaw, standing in front of the older one in front of him, making room for him to stand as the teens rush through the door chattering in relief.  
“Hello, Scott. Can we come and see how Stiles is doing?” Scott nods his head and motions for them to follow, Sherlock staring bewildered at John as he grabs him by the elbow and steers him through the door. They see Sheriff Stilinski standing outside of a door, talking to a concerned looking doctor.  
“-dilated pupils, fast pulse, and hallucinations. We don't know what is wrong with him. If we had an army doctor, they might be able to tell you something similar but-”  
“Well I highly doubt that sir.” The doctor turns around, a glower on his face as he sees John.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“I doubt that I would be able to tell you something so stupidly obvious as this. It is not that hard at all, seeing as I am in fact an army doctor. Now if you would excuse me while I check the patient.” John brushes past the doctor, Sherlock smirking as he follows him into the crowded room, leaving Lestrade to smooth over his feathers.  
A friendly looking nurse makes room for John next to the bed, Stiles murmuring quietly under his breath as he twists under the covers. She makes her way over to the other side and begins to tell John what is on his charts, Scott, Isaac, and Derek hovering over her shoulder. Erica and Lydia are over by the window behind Stiles' IV drip, Jackson and Boyd talking quietly with their heads together in the corner near the door. Lydia glances at Sherlock and John before returning to her contemplating with Erica. Sherlock watches as John mutters under his breath to himself, running his hands down Stiles' slim arms, taking note of how they react to his touch. He runs his fingers gently along the back of Stiles' skull, stopping when Stiles hisses, his eyes opening in a grimace before closing again. The trio behind the nurse titter nervously as John runs his fingers down Stiles' neck, before smoothing over his shoulders.  
He turns to Sherlock. “You have a flashlight on you?”  
“As a matter of fact I do.” Sherlock pulls out his flashlight, handing it over when John reaches for it. With a click he turns it on, and briefly flashes it across Stiles' face and eyelids, watching with narrowed eyes.  
Everyone in the room seems to relax as Stiles stops turning restlessly in his bed, his neck relaxing against the pillows, a soft sigh escaping his lips. The tranquility only lasts a minute before he begins to twitch again, Derek giving a hopeless little jerk, his eyes on the ground in front of him. John looks at his downtrodden face before turning back to Stiles.  
“Sherlock tell them what you think happened.” Sherlock watches as Lydia goes to lock the door before beginning.  
“Well, as far as I can tell, an attempt was made on him by the murderer that is lurking aorund. The obvious head injury, the screaming, the supposed hallucinations that are not in fact hallucinations, and the slight smell of burned paper.” Sherlock steps towards the bed, missing the bristling of every person in the room excluding John and the nurse. John glares at Scott and he looks down. Sherlock runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, then runs them down his arms much like John did. “Jacket where is it.”  
John hands it over when they all just blink owlishly at him, moving to stand next to him as he does so. “Hmmm, yes, here we are. The murderer is very likely a person who has lived here for most of their entire life judging by the way he does these killings, or attempted. And here is another note I see.” Sherlock unfolds it and blinks once as he reads it. Then he reads it again. And again.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Well. This changes things.”  
More sternly. “Sherlock.”  
“Quite simply put my dear John, this was not attempted murder. He was making a point. He did not want to kill Stiles here. He just wanted to make this game a bit more interesting he did. Oh, deceitful creature I cold get used to this.” At John's huff of impatience, Sherlock triumphantly holds out the note so everyone can read it.  
Good luck my little pets.  
John stares at it before turning his gaze towards Derek, his eyes seeming to sharpen viciously.  
“Scott, Derek, if I could speak to you?”


End file.
